Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
My instincts snap. I’m on her in a second, hand braced at her waist, steadying her. “You okay?” I ask, too sharp.
Salem freezes like she’s startled by how fast I moved. Then she nods, breathless. “Yeah.”
My palm is still on her hip. My fingers can feel the warmth of her skin through wet fabric. I should move. I do move. But not before her gaze drops to my hand, then slides back up to my face. Heat flashes between us, brief and dangerous.
“Don’t go all protective dad on me,” she mutters.
I snort. “Protective dad?”
She gestures vaguely at me. “You know. ‘Be careful, you’ll slip.’”
I tilt my head. “Salem, I’m just worried about you. About what happened to you.”
Her expression changes instantly, the playful edge falling away.
I regret the words the second they’re out. I don’t want to drag her back into it.
But Salem doesn’t flinch. She just exhales slowly, like she’s letting truth sit beside her. “Yeah,” she whispers.
We stand in the creek for a minute longer, letting the water and silence do something neither of us can do alone. Then Salem wades toward a rock and sits, water around her hips, arms draped over her knees. I sit on a nearby stone, keeping my body angled toward her, not crowding.
She looks out at the water, eyes distant.
“You want to talk?” I ask quietly.
Salem’s mouth curves without humor. “About my tragic backstory?”
“About anything,” I say. “You don’t have to. I’m just… here.”
She stares at the surface of the creek like it might answer for her. Then she says, voice low, “My mom never cared.” It’s blunt. No pause. No buildup. Just a fact she’s carried so long it’s turned into stone.
My chest tightens.
Salem shrugs like it’s nothing. “She cared about men. About attention. About whatever made her feel… important. I was an inconvenience.”
I hold my expression neutral even though rage is building behind my ribs like a storm.
“And her boyfriend,” Salem continues, a slight curl of disgust twisting her mouth. “Carl.”
My jaw flexes.
“Carl’s… a scumbag,” she says. “Always has been. Creeps me out. He’d look at me like—” She swallows. “Like I was… something he could take.”
My hands clench around the edge of the rock. I keep my voice calm. “Is he still around?”
“Yeah,” she says, a humorless laugh. “He’s like mold. He just… stays.”
My mind starts working automatically. Name. Carl. Relationship to Salem. Proximity. Financial motive. There’s good money in trafficking. And there’s something about the way she said looked at me that makes my blood run cold. I make a mental note so hard it feels like carving it into my skull: Have Dean run Carl. Full background. Financials. Charges. Associates.
Salem’s gaze flicks to me, like she can sense the shift in my focus. “What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I lie.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s a lie.”
I sigh. “It’s… a thought. A protective thought.”
Her mouth tightens. “About Carl.”
“Yeah,” I admit, because lying to her about this feels wrong. “We’re going to check him out.”
Salem goes still, shaking her head. “He didn’t—”
“I’m not saying he did,” I cut in gently, forcing my voice to soften. “I’m saying we don’t ignore any angle. You don’t have to protect him. You don’t have to protect anyone who made you feel unsafe.”
A beat.
Salem’s eyes shine for half a second. Then she looks away. “Okay,” she whispers.
I let the topic breathe. Then I ask, “What do you do for fun?”
Salem barks a laugh, sharp. “Fun?”
“Yeah,” I say, like it’s normal. Like it’s allowed. “Before… all of this.”
She stares at me like I asked her what it feels like to walk on the moon. “I work,” she says. “I… always work. I’ve always been too busy trying to keep my head above water.”
“Salem,” I say quietly, “that’s not fun.”
She makes a face. “It’s survival.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m asking anyway.”
She thinks, chewing on it like it’s a foreign concept. Then she says, surprising me, “The skatepark.”
My brows lift. “You skate?”
Salem’s mouth tilts, pride flickering. “Yeah. I’m not, like, pro. But I love it. It’s… freedom. It’s speed. And if I fall, it’s my fault, not someone else’s.”
That hits me right in the gut. “What’s your board?” I ask, leaning in slightly despite myself.
Her eyes soften. “Just a Landyachtz Cruiser board. Orange. Beat up. Stickers everywhere. I miss it.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” I say reflexively.
Salem’s head snaps toward me. “No.”
I blink. “What?”
She shakes her head hard. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start trying to fix my life with money,” she says, voice tight. “I’m not… I’m not a charity case.”
My chest aches, and I hold her gaze. “Salem. That’s not what I meant.”
She swallows. “It sounded like it.”
I exhale slowly. “Okay.” I nod once, letting her set the boundary. “No board. Not unless you want it. Not unless you ask.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I shift the topic carefully. “What else? Besides the skatepark.”